It’s not easy trying to dance

It’s not easy trying to dance … with, well, gosh darn it, that engorged tumescent state, with testes swinging ’round like, ahem, two coconuts in a tree or something like that. Which is to say that I just got done seeing Blowfly at the Press Club, live, the kind of nasty-ass tentpole revival that put my musty white buttcrack back on the track to success and happiness. No more of this crinkly fulminating about not getting nobody to join me for no birthday cake or pie (I got issues about that dating from childhood, and I just need to bum some goddamn money and go to Rick’s Dessert Diner tomorrow by myself, flip the bird to you all and bury that stupid little wah-wah of mine for another year with a slice of something sweet), because I am rejuvenated with some kinda thanghood. Kudos to the funky ladies in the audience, too, whose twisted pulchritude brought my flagging lothoreo cookies out of retirement.

And aside from the genius of Mr. Clarence Reid, and with due respect to MC Hipster Baggy Pants Dude, plus the always cool Crazy Baldhead and whoever them Japanese game-show punk-rock bees was, I must also give it up for MOM, who served up something out of Martin Scorsese’s Mean Streets as directed by David Lynch and watched by me on mushrooms, but I wasn’t shrooming; it was just really strange and hilarious. Red dress, pink tush, yellow mustard, mutant Norman Greenbaum, weird twist music, spat milk, helium vocals reverbed across the river Styx to the big bad witch’s old shoe house — it was brain-damaged fairy-tale time. “That shit’s gonna give some people nightmares,” one of my friends said to me afterward.

Not me, though. I dream stuff like that, and then wake up laughing. I’m sick like that. —Jackson Griffith